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Elon Musk
“Oh, hello”, Elon Musk says, putting a coaster under his mug of dry Cheerios and placing it on the table. “I didn't see you there.” He looks you directly in the eye. “But you've seen me everywhere, haven't you?” A film projects behind him. Images of rockets exploding, one 65 million dollar failure after another. “I staked my career on colonizing mars. But now my shame will no longer define my legacy. This is the day a Muskrat will rise from the ashes, adorned in its Tesla flightsuit, and ascend to immortality.” The film changes. Images of people, their eyes wide with fear or caution, like they've never seen a camera before. “Uncontacted indigenous people.” He pours milk into his Cheerios. “The last human beings on Earth who've never had contact with the civilized world.” He’s still pouring the milk. “But what good are people who don't purchase goods and perpetuate the menstruation-like cycle of innovation?” The milk is overflowing from the mug, leaking off the table and into his lap. The heat radiating from his boardshorts evaporates the fluid into steam on contact. “So I asked myself, what would our heavenly father do?” He removes his shirt to reveal an elaborate crucifixion tattoo across his veiny, throbbing pectorals, his sandy brown chest hair growing around it in patches. His left nipple replaces the head of Longinus, his right the head of Mary Magdalene. “And do you know what he told me?” He grabs you by the hand. “Do you know the universal secret?” He briefly fondles your breasts, but you push him away, flirtatiously mouthing no, no, no. You know you want him. But you don't remember how you got here. You don't remember your name. You remember nothing but Elon. The film changes. Images of an enormous armored vessel. Militaristic on the outside, the interior exudes elegance; full bar, kitchen, gaming tables, and a huge, impenetrable observation window. “Our Father, through his only-begotten son, came before me in a dream. The Almighty and the Christ sat side-by-side in the holiest of holies, the inner sanctum, not of heaven, but of meaning itself. And behold, I saw the Mammon. Truly I say to you, the three were not in bitter dispute, but united together, each an integral piece of the Holy Trinity, the base-most expression of God.” “And what did God say to you, big boy?” You say, playing footsie with his milk-soaked black business socks. “Ignorant harlot!” He screams, throwing the mug of Cheerios and milk in your face. “Do you desire my milk so badly, you can not discern for yourself God’s message from this vision?” You shake your head no, ashamed you've displeased your master. He rubs your head, massaging the milk on his hands deep into your scalp. “Child, do you wish to possess this esoteric knowledge?” “Yes, Papi Musk”, you say. Your conscious mind awakens as you realize you have no control of your actions, words, or emotions. “Your lessons begin now”, he says, loosening the drawstring on his shorts. You pull his shorts off and see a large pink udder with four teets stuffed into his Teen Titans Go! boxer-briefs. You lovingly guide a teet through the folds. It's already dripping with pre-milk. “Suck it”, he says, grabbing your hair and pulling you closer. You obey your master and begin suckling. His warm milk squirts down your throat. “Everybody has a place in the system”, he says. “as ordained by God’s laws of nature. Even when they seem lost and useless, He appoints a prophet to help them—to do His will.” His milk is getting warmer and more viscous. “Truly I say to you, that prophet will channel the Mammon, and through him all people will find their purpose.” His piping hot milk globs down your throat and scalds your esophagus, but you can't let go of the teet. “The Tesla Amphibious Observation Vessel. Now the world’s leaders and innovators have a window into the lives of primitive man, commodifying their existence and finally giving them purpose.” The film changes. Images of the vessel in New York, Los Angeles, Houston, Detroit—crushing cars, busses, and people while Elon, Jeff Bezos, Charles Koch, Oprah Winfrey, and Kanye West peer out the observation window. “Everyone has a place in the system” he says. “And you? You're my little milk slave.”